Clever Women
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: 'Barrayar' from a different and slightly AU p.o.v. Cordelia wonders where the 'clever women' of Barrayar are, well some are to be found among her new in-laws.
1. Chapter 1

"Grace of God!"

"Piotr have some startling news?" Anastasia Lady Vorkleves _nee _Vorkosigan looked across the breakfast table at her husband and promptly lost herself in those blue, blue eyes. That still happened after two years of marriage. That is when she didn't find herself contemplating that strong yet sensual and completely delicious mouth, or the elegant line running from cheek to jaw, or that finger tingling mass of dense and silky hair of a perfect soft black…

"Anastasia?" Rene Lord Vorkleves prompted

"What?" She pulled herself together, "Oh, Father's married."

Rene put down his coffee cup with an audible clink. "I thought Aral was drinking himself to death down at Vorkosigan Surleau?"

"Not any more he's not." Anastasia consulted the letter again. "Gran'da is very relieved."

Rene was too judging by his expression. He was annoyingly devoted to Aral Vorkosigan, like most men who'd served under him. Which was a trifle awkward as Anastasia was most distinctly _not._ In fact she didn't even _like_ her father. But he had saved Rene for her – and Roland too. Mama wouldn't mind her being grateful to him for that_._

"Who is the lady," Rene continued, agog. "Anybody we know?"

"Only by reputation, it's Cordelia Naismith."

Her husband's reaction was all Anastasia could have desired. "What? You mean the heroine of Escobar? How in the name of all that's holy did he meet her?"

She grinned mischievously; "According to Gran'da Father walked in just after she finished disposing of Uncle Ges. Being naturally grateful he hid her in his cabin until the prince immolated himself leaving him – Father that is – in command and making it safe to return her to the brig. Remember he was confined to quarters himself which gave them some days in very close contact. "

"And that did it," Rene said.

"Apparently," _I hope she knows what she's getting into_ Anastasia added cynically to herself.

…

Anastasia tried to forget the matter, as she usually did anything involving her father. This time she wasn't allowed to. Aral Vorkosigan's marriage to a Betan was the juiciest gossip on the Vor circuit and they were, unfortunately, right in the middle of the season.

It was thus Anastasia found herself at yet another boring ball – boring because Rene was off talking business instead of dancing with his wife - perched on a straight backed gilt chair careful of her dress and sipping at a lemonade. A shadow fell across her; "Have you called upon your new stepmother yet?"

"No I have not. I've never met her and don't know anything about it!" Anastasia snapped back before even looking up.

It was her old friend Alys Vorpatril, dazzling in pure white, with a very pretty girl in pale violet satin with a striking head of dark red hair in tow. Alys raised an eyebrow. "Well you needn't take my head off!"

Anastasia struggled for composure. "Sorry, I'm just very tired of being asked about my father's affairs. If Vor society doesn't know by now that we are _not_ on terms of confidence –"

Alys raised a hand. "Say no more. Let us change the subject," she turned to her decidedly uneasy protege. "Do you know Marjorie Voraldin, Ana?"

"Only by reputation, like my stepmother," Anastasia made an effort at a friendly smile and some of the alarm faded from the girl's dark eyes. "If I can believe Count Aubrey you are a veritable prodigy, Lady Marjorie!"

She laughed and relaxed all the way. "You can't! I apologize for Da boring you."

Anastasia smiled back. "He does a little but your Da is a regular darling and it's sweet to see how devoted he is to you." Anastasia had a weak spot for Das who doted over their daughters, her own being so conspicuously lacking in that respect – not that she'd ever given him the chance to! Gran'da was a doting as any girl could wish and _he_ hadn't killed Mama. "Why haven't I seen you before, Marjorie?" she asked patting a chair next to her.

The younger girl settled herself, arranging her skirts carefully so they wouldn't crease. "I just came down with Da," she explained. "I wasn't to come out until next year but sitting in alone in that rundown old barn on Starbridge Avenue while Da did politics had no appeal."

"And Marjorie is quite old enough to go out," Alys added from the chair on the girl's other side. "So I just carried her off!"

"My aged Aunt," Marjorie said straight faced.

Alys hunched her back into an imitation of a dowager's hump and put a hand to her ear. "What was that, niece?" All three women laughed.

"I'm having trouble seeing you as a duenna, Alys," Anastasia said.

"Why so? Am I not a respectable old married woman?"

"Finally!" It had taken Alys long enough to make up her mind, or maybe she'd enjoyed playing the field. But the social opportunities of a Vor bud were miniscule compared to those open to a Vor matron and Alys talents and ambitions in that direction were unlimited. Now that she was well if not spectacularly married Anastasia confidently expected to see her friend queen of Vorbarr Sultana society by next season at the latest.

She spotted one of her brothers in law nearby, caught his eye and beckoned imperatively. "You're not doing your duty by your protégé, Alys. She should be dancing not sitting with the chaperons!"

"_I _don't have a quiver full of handsome brothers in law," Lady Vorpatril answered giving Roland Vorkleves an approving once over as he bowed himself before the three of them.

Anastasia saw Marjorie's eyes widen a little. The reactions of both ladies were more than justified. The Vorkleves were a very handsome family, if Anastasia did say so herself. The combined genes of the willowy blond Princess Yelizaveta Vorbarra and her dark, stocky and ruggedly handsome husband, the Count Xavier Vorkleves, had resulted in the breathtaking elegance of her Rene and three almost equally gorgeous younger brothers of which the one currently standing before them was the second. Captain Lord Roland Vorkleves was just as tall and black of hair as his elder brother if slightly heavier of build and bone, fairer skinned but with the same chiseled Vor features and deep set blue eyes. And he was clearly as struck by Marjorie's crown of darkling flame colored hair and shimmering satins as she was by his undoubted attractions as set off by dress greens.

"Lady Marjorie Voraldin, may I present my brother in law. Roland, ask your cousin to dance."

"Gladly," he breathed and offered his arm; "If you would favor me, milady?"

She blushed, mumbled something at random and they moved off together. "Hmmmm," Alys said thoughtfully.

"One look was all it took to convert _me_ to the idea of an arranged marriage," Anastasia observed. The fact that Father had been dead against it hadn't hurt either but there was no denying the sheer masculine impact of the Vorkleves brothers on any healthy woman.

"Cousins," Alys mused a little doubtfully.

"Second cousins, like Rene and me – or for that matter Padma and me."

Alys nodded. Vor matchmakers were all too aware of the dangers of inbreeding but second cousins had generally been considered safe, "And in only one line of descent even if it is the same one as Mad Yuri." She shrugged. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. Marjorie might want to do better than a second son."

Anastasia smiled. "I'll wager my pearl and ruby set that you like so much she won't."

Alys tried to think of a matching stake. "Against my beach house at Bonsanklar," she said at last. "You have a bet, my girl!"

They shook on it. "No fair sabotaging Roland's chances," Anastasia warned.

"Introducing Marjorie to other prospects doesn't count as sabotage," Alys retorted.

"Agreed."

….

The bet gave a much needed grace note to what was developing into the most harrowing social season since Mad Yuri's last year before the revolt. It had kicked off with the state funeral and planetary mourning for the 'heroic' Prince Serg whose death was regarded as an unmixed blessing by those in the know, or would have been if not for the other casualties. Only a few, including Anastasia, suspected that it was a far from an unintended, or at the very least unhoped for, consequence of brief disastrous Escobar war.

The return of the prisoners of said war had brightened things up for a bit then the arrests had started inspiring rampant paranoia in the gentlemen and wrecking havoc upon the ladies' guest lists.

"This must stop!" Anastasia said with vigor to her guest of honor. "Look at my table, Count Vortala!" They both did so and a commiserating expression rearranged the old prime minister's multitude of wrinkles.

The state dining room at Vorkleves House was hung with red silk brocade. Two chandeliers blazed with light setting the gold coffered ceiling all a glimmer. The famous U-shaped table was spread with a magnificent openwork cloth showing a vermillion lining and could seat fifty guests. Anastasia had invited only thirty, just enough to fill the outside of the U allowing everybody to see everybody else, but less than half the chairs were occupied leaving her remaining guests scattered in little lonely islands around the table's circumference.

"You have my deepest sympathies, dear lady, but what can I do?" Old Vortala asked reasonably.

Anastasia sighed. He was right of course. Nobody but Ezar himself could control Captain Negri and since, as was well known, Negri did nothing without Ezar's consent and command it was clear that the arrests were the Emperor's own doing. "I can't say I much miss anybody who's disappeared – at least to date," she admitted.

"Thankfully our real friends are all safe," Count Xavier, agreed from her left projecting a warm smile around the table his blue eyes twinkling. But the tension was telling on him too, surely there hadn't been that much grey in his hair before Escobar?

While there was no love to be lost between the ministries and the Council of Counts those arrested would not be missed by anybody, Vor or Prole. Emperor Ezar's sensible enough attempt to encourage meritocracy in government as well as the military and been a most qualified success. _Some_ of the proles so shoved into prominence had shown themselves to be parvenus of the worst description - and corrupt with it – but not all. Anastasia was happy to see the scattered survivors of her dinner party included Quintillan of the Interior – one of the good 'uns – and his lady. Old Vortala and his Countess were the only other political guests. Everybody else was family. Not that her family wasn't most unwillingly political as well.

Princess and Countess Yelizaveta was the last of the direct Vorbarra line being the sole surviving child of Prince Xav's son Dorca, which put her four sons uncomfortably close to the succession – if you ignored the agnatic rule that is and given the precedent set by Dorca there was no reason not to. Anastasia herself was granddaughter of the Princess Olivia, Prince Xav's oldest daughter which would give her children and Rene's a double claim – God and their ancestors help them!

Anastasia looked around the table. Roland was smiling happily at Marjorie, seated beside him with her father Count Voraldin on her other side then an empty seat, then Padma Vorpatril. As the only the only surviving child of Xav's younger daughter Princess Sonia his claim ranked behind both the Vorkleves and Vorkosigans if not nearly far removed enough to suit someone seeking a quiet life. Marjorie's mother had been Padma's sister, the late Countess Parvati, putting her fat in the fire as well – maybe a marriage between her and Roland wasn't such a good idea after all. Alys, seated on the other arm of the U opposite her husband, was Anastasia's cousin on the Vorkosigan side and most thankfully _not_ in the line of succession unlike her younger brothers in law, Rodrick and Regis, forlornly islanded by empty seats farther down the table.

Anastasia tapped her glass with a silver knife and raised her voice "Move up everybody, never mind the place cards. Let's be friendly!" And it would be a nice, friendly dinner in spite of the formal setting she reflected. Maybe the ruin of her careful arrangements wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"And where is Yelizaveta tonight?" Vortala asked, as if he couldn't guess.

Anastasia confirmed his suspicion. "With Ezar, she hardly leaves his bedside these days. I do believe she's the only person on Barrayar who will mourn him as a man rather than a symbol."

"Not the only one."

"Oh of course, I was forgetting Negri."

….

NOTE:

Agnatic; male line descent only as opposed to 'cognatic' descent through both male and female lines, what Aral calls 'Salic' descent rules.


	2. Chapter 2

The button clicked under Princess Yelizaveta's finger, loud in the muffled silence, and the holographic page hovering over the dying Emperor's face vanished. "Enough, Ezar!" she said turning to see her uncle blinking, trying to clear his eyes of the tears running freely down his temples to soak his pillow.

"I must face what I have done."

"Wallowing is not facing," Yelizaveta told the only family he had left sharply settling into her usual chair at his side and taking his limp, cold white hand between her two warm ones. "It was the best possible outcome for Serg as well as Barrayar," she reminded him then grimaced pushing back some tears of her own. "I'd loved him too you know and I didn't want to see him die the way Mad Yuri did. Serg was going down that same road. You know he was. Aunt Vera saw it too, she understands."

"It was plain murder," Ezar tried to move in a hopeless effort to shrug away a pain that was of the mind not the body. "Of my son… of my men…"

"It was," she agreed frankly. "But the casualties of Escobar suffered for the benefit of Barrayar in accordance with their vows. And we Vorbarra were born to make the hard choices that others can't." She smiled grimly. "That's what made us emperors."

Ezar cracked a very small grin. "And you're Vorbarra through and through aren't you, girl?" he paused to breathe." What would you say to the regency after I'm gone?"

The question was not unexpected or unconsidered and Yelizaveta rapped out her flat "No," without a moment's hesitation.

The Emperor Ezar's bleached eyebrows, barely visible on his dead white face, rose fractionally, "Why not?"

Yelizaveta marshaled her arguments and delivered them in clipped bursts, like needler set on repeat; "Because I am the last Vorbarra of the direct line and because I have four Vorkleves sons."

"That old rivalry's been dead a hundred years," Ezar countered.

"Sleeping," she corrected, "and lightly at that. Besides Xavier would hate it, you know how he feels about politics."

"And you are such a good wife," her uncle teased.

"Usually," she smiled ruefully acknowledging the hit. Xavier was such a darling. Not weak, a born leader of men in fact, but there was no question but she could steam roller him into just about anything. So of course she did her best not to unless it was truly vital for his safety or the boys'.

Ezar thought about it. "You really feel there's danger of a Kleven resurgency?"

"Oh yes." Yelizaveta had lived in Vorbarra district's big neighbor and hereditary rival for nearly thirty years. She knew the Klevens better than their Count, maybe better then they knew themselves. "The feeling is latent but it's there. Our loyal lieges remember Count Carolan's mother was as much a Vorbarra as Dorca's and they still raise the toast to the White Tree every Remembrance Day. That old claim united to mine and combined with the sight of me standing next to the camp stool is sure to start our loyalists wondering why Gregor and not Rene. I guarantee it."

"And would Rene be tempted do you think?"

Yelizaveta gave her uncle her patented I-am-not-a-fool-and-neither-are-you-look, famous for bringing fractious male relatives to their knees in abject surrender. "You know better than anybody that rebels don't need their figurehead's support or even consent."

That made Ezar snort with the closest thing to laughter he could manage these days. "Point made. Well if you're sure, girl -?"

"I am."

"That leaves only one possibility." Together they contemplated Aral Vorkosigan.

Yelizaveta sighed and broke the meditative silence; "Oh dear."

"Yes," Ezar agreed somehow managing to look both annoyed and amused without altering a line of his weary, set expression, "Stubborn as his father but with none of Piotr's realism."

"That's my Gran'da in him," she agreed.

There was another silence as the two of them remembered Prince Xav's frequently inconvenient, sometimes obscure and more than a little inconsistent ethics. "Everything depends on this Betan woman he's married," Yelizaveta said at last.

"You think a wife has that much influence, do you?" Ezar asked dryly

She gave him an even dryer look. "How many things did _you_ do because Aunt Vera thought it was a good idea?"

"Another point to you, my girl," it was Ezar's turn to sigh. "If she's anything like your grandmother -"

"I would be very surprised if she was," Yelizaveta answered. "Grandma would never have half drowned her therapist, smuggled herself off planet and wrangled her way through half a dozen wormholes to get to the man she loved." She smiled, "I may have finally found a Betan I can like."

Ezar found the strength to draw his brows together. "What about Dorothee?"

"I didn't 'like' my grandmother, I loved her," Yelizaveta answered with a reassuring squeeze of the hand. I got over blaming her and Gran'da for Beta long, long ago."

His face relaxed, reassured. Yelizaveta continued meditatively. "I can do a little recon work. Anastasia owes her family a call. She's already sent the formal announcement."

"Ah," an eyebrow labored to lift, "A boy?"

"No, twin girls," Yelizaveta smiled happily. "Granddaughters, the extrap from the genescan says they'll favor their mother."

"Lovely," Ezar agreed sincerely.

….

The brand new Lady Vorkosigan hesitated outside the parlor door nervously smoothing the full skirt of her hastily donned 'afternoon' ensemble and took a deep breath. _Get a hold of yourself, Cordelia!_

The door opened unexpectedly and she found herself nose to nose with Aral, looking every bit as nervous as she felt. His eyes lit with something like relief. "There you are, dear Captain!" He drew her inside.

Piotr had pulled his chair up close to the sofa and was chatting animatedly away with the two ladies sitting on it. The elder of the pair was dressed in a complicated looking outfit of robin's egg and royal blue. Her high piled hair was pale blond and her features fine but not young. Cordelia judged her to be about Aral's age. The shorter, younger lady by her wore a dark yellow jacket over a gauzy pale yellow dress. Her hair was a warm chestnut color and she was smiling fondly at Piotr. The smile vanished abruptly when her attention shifted to Aral and Cordelia.

"My lady princess," he said formally, "may I present my wife Lady Vorkosigan. Cordelia this is Princess and Countess Yelizaveta Vorbarra-Vorkleves and my daughter Anastasia Lady Vorkleves."

There was something of Aral in the squared jawline but otherwise the girl was –presumably – the image of her long dead mother with cameo fine features and a very striking pair of tilted almond shaped grey-blue eyes. '_She had a most beautiful face_' Cordelia found herself thinking. The kind of face a very young man might fall head over heels for, idealizing the woman behind it without knowing her at all. Cordelia was surprised by a sudden twinge of sympathy for her predecessor; a very young girl who'd never pretended to be anything she wasn't and couldn't be blamed for failing to live up to a callow boy's ideal.

Princess Yelizaveta offered her hand. "Welcome to Barrayar, Cordelia. Aral tells me you're expecting – already," she arched a suggestive eyebrow.

He laughed and seemed to relax a little. "What can I say, we got lucky."

"A boy," Anastasia seemed to warm slightly, "An heir for Vorkosigan at last!"

"Does it really matter so much?" Cordelia ventured and was immediately sorry as she got disbelieving looks from all the Barrayarans, even Aral. "I mean wouldn't a girl do as well?"

"Of course she would," Yelizaveta answered briskly, "but custom and common law decrees male succession only."

Piotr smiled at her. "If that daughter were a woman like you, my dear, or our Anastasia -" he kissed his granddaughter's hand. "I agree she would be more than capable of running a district. But alas women like the two of you are most uncommon."

"Silly mothers raise silly daughters," Yelizaveta conceded. "Heaven knows I can list the Vor ladies I'd trust with anything more important than an evening party on the fingers of one hand."

Anastasia smiled at her mother-in-law. "Don't worry, Yelizaveta, I'll see to it your granddaughters aren't at all silly."

"Twins," the princess beamed at Cordelia, "my first grandchildren and both girls!"

"You seem pleased," she ventured cautiously.

"After four sons, I certainly am! But I'm quite differently situated from Aral and Piotr. Vorkleves has an abundant supply of possible heirs; my boys, Xavier's brother and his sons and grandsons, while all the living male Vorkosigans are sitting right here in this room."

Anastasia nodded emphatic agreement and Cordelia said, still careful, "You won't feel – displaced – by a younger brother?"

The almond shaped eyes widened, "Of course not. I don't want to see the district going out of the family any more than Gran'da!"

"Family continuity is very important to us on Barrayar," Yelizaveta explained unnecessarily. "I know direct succession father to son and the conservation of property are not concerns on Beta Colony."

"No," Cordelia answered a little helplessly. "But I'm working on understanding you ways." Piotr beamed his approval. The ladies seemed to be reserving judgment. She met the old princess's oddly intent blue gaze and realized she was being tested, studied, why?

"So, Aral," Yelizaveta said, eyes still on Cordelia. "What now? Do you mean to vegetate here at Vorkosigan Surleau forever?"

Mesmerized by that steady stare Cordelia felt her husband take her hand. "Vegetate? certainly not, Yelizaveta. I intend to keep very busy being a husband and a father."

"That will be a change," Anastasia said then looked as if she wished she hadn't.

Her father nodded, gravely unhappy. "I never make the same mistake twice, Anastasia." He forced a smile at Cordelia. "The new Lady Vorkosigan will have to take her chances with new ones though."

She tried to smile back. Oh dear; _'Clearly a lot of unresolved baggage there, and no family therapists to deal with it either." _

"Here we're expected to manage our own problems, not run to a therapist whenever we're the least bit unhappy."

Cordelia's gaze snapped back to Yelizaveta. Good God, had the woman read her mind? "Sometimes everybody needs help," she answered after a long moment. "But recent experience has convinced me therapy isn't a cure all!"

"Especially when there's nothing wrong with you," the princess agreed lips quirking. She shot another look at Aral. "Well, my dear, I just hope you can live with a bone idle retired officer."

Cordelia was conscious of a stir of dismay. Aral and 'idle' did not go together at all. He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Plenty to be done in the district, don't you agree, sir?"

"Mmmmm," Piotr, Cordelia noted, looked every bit as unconvinced as she felt. And why, looking back at Princess Yelizaveta, did she feel as if she'd passed some sort of test?


	3. Chapter 3

Anastasia's next glimpse of her new stepmother was at the joint meeting the full Council of the Empire. The season had ended at midsummer but instead of enjoying the sparkling sun and cool sea breezes at Vorkleves-de-la-Mar on the gulf du Nord Anastasia was stuck in hot, humid Vorbarra Sultana playing hostess for Count Xavier as Yelizaveta was now spending 26/10 at Ezar's bedside, and with most of the Counts still in town due to the Emperor's imminent demise it might as well have still been the season damn it. Anastasia was feeling even more anti-social than usual with Rene back on his ship instead of at his wife's side making Vorbarra Sultana bearable. Roland too had disappeared into the hinterlands to train up a new draft of recruits leaving little Marjorie Voraldin visibly mopey. And she had Anastasia's full sympathy .

The joint meeting was a full dress occasion with the Counts and Ministers in their state robes and their ladies seated in the gallery in court gowns and jewels. Anastasia had elected to wear Mama's yellow diamonds with her old gold and ivory satin. She entered the gallery on Lord Rodrick Vorkleves' arm, spotted Marjorie Voraldin, adorable in green and emeralds, and instantly sent her escort to claim the seats next to the girl. Anastasia followed with more deliberation for the sake of her gown and settled into the chair beside Marjorie's. The two ladies admired each other's dresses and jewels then proceeded to introduce their companions.

"This is Kristina Bernadotte," Marjorie said indicating the blond a few years older than herself sitting at her left hand. "She's from Earth, an anthropologist studying our colorful natives."

"Really?" Anastasia looked at the girl with surprise and interest. She would never have taken Kristina for an off-worlder for all her unusual coloring. She looked too comfortable in her billowing pale green and white silk dress, suitable for a lady in attendance, sitting with back straight and hands folded in her lap like any Vor bud but her ice blue eyes were wide and her lips parted as she stared past Marjorie at Rodrick spectacular in his red and blues. Looking to her left Anastasia saw her brother in law was similarly entranced. Really, the Vorkleves boys were falling like dominoes!

The benches around them gradually filled with other Vor ladies and their escorts. The dowager princess made her entrance with the heir and took the chairs set on either side of the plain camp stool that was the official seat of the emperors of Barrayar. A screen was set up and Ezar appeared looking like Death in full regimentals. Yelizaveta wasn't visible but Anastasia knew she would be hovering just out of pickup range, ready to pounce along with a medical team the minute the session ended.

Down below the men went through the choreographed steps of formally ratifying measures long since decided through discussions and deals made in their ladies' drawing rooms or the privacy of their own libraries. The Emperor informed his loyal councilors of his wishes in his own inimitably intimidating way and the majority obediently voted their agreement with the exception of a handful of principled – or insane - ultra-conservatives who abstained; Vortrifrani, Vordrozha, Vortugalov and Vorbrecken sounded off like men, but Vorfolse was barely audible and clearly scared to death.

After the vote Aral Vorkosigan rose to make a graceful, modest little speech of acceptance and Anastasia was forced to acknowledge a stirring of pride. _Her_ father was now Lord Regent of the Empire! – assuming he could keep it. The Vor game was nothing if not unpredictable and nobody could ever be quite secure in his gains. Anything could happen once the old Emperor was dead. Grimly Anastasia picked out one by one those Counts who would surely make trouble if they saw the chance, beginning but alas not ending with the pretentious Count Vordarian.

After a few more speeches the meeting broke up. Yelizaveta got Ezar back into his bed, Princess Kareen took her son home for his nap, and the Counts, ministers, their ladies and their aides trooped from council chamber to the great hall for luncheon after which the men went back to their business and the ladies retired to the white drawing room to partake of tea and coffee by and indulge in political gossip.

Anastasia soon found herself back in Marjorie's company and her Terran friend's "An anthropologist from Earth," she said to Miss Bernadotte, trying not to sound incredulous.

"We've been studying the pastoralist culture of the Voraldin downs," the girl explained then smiled at Marjorie. "But I couldn't miss the chance to witness a historic occasion like this. I was interested to see how similar your political system is to ours at home."

Before Anastasia could follow that up she spotted her stepmother hovering uncertainly at the edge of the crowd with her woman attendant, both wearing ordinary visiting costumes instead of court dress. Anastasia frowned disapproval then was caught by a sudden, horrible thought; did Cordelia _have_ a court dress? Had anybody thought to explain the intricate social code requiring different costumes for different occasions and even times of day to her? Knowing menthe answer was probably no.

"Excuse me, I see my stepmother," she said to her companions and crossed the room to Cordelia trying to decide what she should call her. 'Lady Vorkosigan' sounded stiff and unfriendly and the poor woman had problems enough without worrying about a hostile stepdaughter. 'Mother' was right out. "Good afternoon, Cordelia," she said. "Do you take coffee or tea?"

The new Lady Vorkosigan was supplied with a cup of black coffee and introduced to Marjorie and Kristina. "How is the Council of Counts and Ministers like your government on Earth?" Anastasia asked the latter curiously.

Cordelia looked startled and interested. "They have monarchies on Earth?"

"Oh yes, very ancient ones. I'm from the United Kingdoms of Scandinavia and your joint meeting of Counts and Ministers is almost identical to our opening of the Grand Council of the Three Kingdoms." Kristina explained. "You see each kingdom and protectorate has its own legislature – not unlike your Parliament of Aldinburgh, Marjorie - headed by Viceroys of the royal family or elected leaders depending on their individual constitutions. Every year representatives of each member state meet with the King and his privy council to ratify treaties and discuss joint issues and the like." She twinkled at the Barrayarans, "We get ourselves up in archaic fancy dress too and put on quite a show if I do say so myself!"

….

The last thing Anastasia wanted to do was play social godmother to the new Lady Vorkosigan but the good name of her birth House was at stake so she invited herself home with Cordelia. As soon as they'd settled themselves in the drawing room Anastasia raised the question.

"Cordelia, has anybody explained your duties to you?"

The Betan woman looked dismayed. "Aral said I could live a private life."

"That's what I'm talking about, your private social duties as the lady of House Vorkosigan." Cordelia stared blankly. "You have been introduced to Madame Beeton at least?"

"Who?"

"Oh God!" Anastasia said with deep feeling and reached for the bell. A footman appeared, "Ask Madame Beeton to step up to the drawing room if you please, Feodor" The man vanished and Anastasia turned back to her stepmother. "Madame Beeton is our housekeeper. You should have sent for her to give your orders when you took up residence."

Cordelia was shaking her head helplessly. "I didn't know."

"How could you?" Anastasia glared at the Droushnakovi, "Couldn't you have told her?" the woman blushed.

"Drou just got here herself -" Cordelia began defensively.

"And she's a bodyguard not a lady's maid," Anastasia finished on second thoughts and nodded an apology. "I beg your pardon, Droushnakovi."

The woman glowed with pleasure, as Anastasia had known she would, at being treated like an armsman. Then the drawing room door opened to admit a tight mouthed little woman in a respectable dark silk. "Beetie, can you believe it," Anastasia exclaimed energetically, "poor Lady Vorkosigan didn't know she had a housekeeper until I told her three minutes ago!"

Justified offense morphed into sympathetic dismay on the housekeeper's round face. "Oh my, isn't that just like a man! And I was just wondering if I should be so bold as to present myself."

"The Count-my-grandfather and milord father haven't told my milady a single thing," Anastasia continued warmly. "Why she doesn't so much as have a proper court dress, and I'm sure she hasn't sent out her cards."

"Oh my solemn word!" the good woman gasped, completely appalled.

Droushnakovi was beginning to look a little dismayed herself at such an abyss of ignorance and Cordelia downright bewildered. "What cards?"

The other three women winced. "Sit down, Beetie, we definitely need to have a good feminine coze," said Anastasia.

Cordelia was vastly relieved to discover that she could continue to leave domestic arrangements entirely to Beetie and took in the dress code without a blink, she was former military after all so the concept of different uniforms for different occasions wasn't strange to her, but she seemed unable to get her head around the intricacies of card leaving and calling etiquette.

Anastasia took a deep breath and a firm grip on her patience. "Never mind all that, let's just stick to what needs doing right now. You should have sent Gran'da's card, Father's and your own by hand of an armsman to all the Counts' houses upon taking up residence. Since you didn't I think it would be best for you and me, Cordelia, to jointly give an evening reception to celebrate Father's new office," she shot a look at Beetie who nodded approvingly.

"Good thinking, milady. That'll make it look less like a mistake."

"Exactly," Anastasia agreed. "The last thing we want, Cordelia, is for Vor society to get the idea you don't know what's due to it and to yourself."

"That would be very damaging to our standing," Beetie agreed like the loyal old retainer she was.

Cordelia straightened, eye brightening. "I see! All this complicated etiquette is important politically."

"Extremely," said Anastasia, relieved her stepmother was beginning to understand. "Politicking doesn't happen in the Council Chamber, Cordelia. It happens around our dinner tables and in our drawing rooms. If you aren't on visiting terms with the Countesses and ministers' ladies they won't accept your invitations and Father won't be able to talk business with their men off the record and informally."

"I get it," Cordelia said leaning forward intent and interested. "So how do we go about throwing this reception thing?"


	4. Chapter 4

Yelizaveta cracked the weakest possible smile. "So Cordelia is a social success?"

"Absolutely," Anastasia replied with a bit more vivacity then was entirely natural. "Her god-awful idea of small talk adds to her interest. Her guests stand by in breathless anticipation of what will come out of her mouth next."

"That's Betans for you," Yelizaveta said, smile vanishing. Her eyes strayed towards the door of the small sitting room not far from the huge and ancient bedchamber where the Emperor lay dying.

"You haven't finished your dinner," said Anastasia. "If there's any change at all we'll be notified, Yelizaveta, eat!"

Her mother in law looked unenthusiastically down at her poached salmon and speared a pink flake with her fork. Anastasia suppressed a sigh. Getting his chosen regent approved by the council had been the very last item on Emperor Ezar's agenda for the future. He was ready to die – but Yelizaveta was not ready to let go. Ezar had rescued Yelizaveta from Beta Colony. He and his Empress Vera had taken the place of her massacred parents and sponsored her marriage to Xavier. Ezar was quite literally the last of her birth family. With his death House Vorbarra would be down to a middle aged woman and a four year old boy.

And House Vorkosigan wasn't doing much better Anastasia thought uneasily. _Give us sons, Cordelia. Lots and lots of sons, or someday I'm going to be in exactly the same place as Yelizaveta is now._

Ezar's interminable death dragged on and on. Xavier and Anastasia moved into the residence, not for his sake but for Yelizaveta's. It became more and more difficult to pry her from his side, even for an instant. Anastasia began to wonder if Yelizaveta was keeping her uncle alive through sheer force of will. Certainly the doctors had no better explanation for this incredibly lingering end.

At least he wasn't suffering. Ezar had gone beyond physical pain long ago but now he seemed free of his mental agonies as well. Sonorous, labored snores alternated with brief, breathless but cheerful moments of apparent full consciousness during which he seemed to have gone back in his mind to earlier, happier times. He chatted with the long dead Empress Vera as if she were there at his side. He asked Yelizaveta about her school lessons and teased her about long ago admirers. He even spoke of Serg remembering him as an infant and a small boy full of promise, untainted by cruelty or madness.

If there was a God, Anastasia thought, He had nothing but mercy for the filicide. But then if she, a mere mortal woman, could understand and forgive the terrible thing Ezar had done for Barrayar how could an infinite God do less?

Days passed, and nights. The Emperor sank into coma but heart and lungs stubbornly went right on working. Finally Anastasia woke abruptly in the wee-hours of an early autumn morning to see her father in law standing over her, all of the expressive lines of his face drooping downward. She knew what he was going to say before he said it. "He's going. Any time now the doctors say."

Emperors die in the midst of a crowd. The medical staff had been pushed to the back of the room, displaced by old Vortala, some other senior ministers and assorted members of the Imperial General Staff including Negri off by himself in a corner. Yelizaveta stood in her customary place right by the bed, one of Exar's hands between both of hers, ice blue eyes fixed on his blanched and fallen face. Xavier slipped through the crowd to his wife's side watching her not the dying Emperor. Anastasia lingered by the door. A few seconds later it opened to admit the Dowager-princess and the little boy who all too soon now would be their Lord and Master.

Kareen gave her a ghastly semblance of a smile which warmed into something more human as Anastasia clasped her hand. Together they led the heir to his gran'da's bedside and Anastasia pulled up a footstool for him to sit on. Gregor was appropriately grave but didn't seem to be in actual distress. He stood on tiptoe to pat Ezar's limp hand – a completely spontaneous and unprompted gesture - then sat down obediently to wait, leaning sleepily against his mama's side. The three Vorkosigans arrived shortly thereafter. The two men moving to stand near the prince and his mother, and Cordelia slipping quietly into the furthest, shadowy corner next to Negri.

It didn't take all that long, less than an hour. The rest of them only knew for sure it was over when Yelizaveta, her face frozen into a frightening impassivity, finally put down her uncle and foster-father's hand, folding both on his still chest and closing his eyes.

Anastasia's father moved her gently to one side to make room for him to kneel before the prince – no, the Emperor – and pledge his oath. The other men followed; Vortala, Gran'da and Xavier first by virtue of their rank as counts and vassals primus, the chiefs of staff including Negri and finally the ministers. Then it was the women's turn; first the Vorbarra princesses, Yelizaveta and Kareen, then Cordelia was drawn out of her corner and finally Anastasia knelt to place her hands between Gregor's two small ones and swear the liege oath unto death for herself and on behalf of her absent husband and their heirs yet unborn.

…..

The funeral was a five day long nightmare. Anastasia dogged Yelizaveta's steps waiting for her to break down – or run amok with two swords, whichever came first. At least Cordelia was no longer her problem. Alys had taken over the social godmothering duties when Anastasia assumed responsibility for Marjorie after Roland popped the question, the happy couple were only waiting for the end of state mourning to announce their engagement. Anastasia had let Alys keep her beach house – more like forced her to keep it. Looking out for, and cleaning up after, the Betan Lady Vorkosigan was forfeit enough and of considerably more practical use to Anastasia.

Barrayaran women are expected to see their kin out of life as well as into it. Yelizaveta as the senior - indeed only - surviving Vorbarra woman presided over the funeral ceremonies with Anastasia, taking the place of a daughter, at her side. Assisted by Ezar's batman and chamber servants they prepared his body for the lying in state. There was almost nothing left of him, his uniform, decorations and state robes weighed more than he did. Then Yelizaveta sat enthroned beside the body as it lay on the bier in Castle Vorhartung's great hall for four long days, receiving condolences with frozen courtesy as her family looked on in mounting fear.

"She's going to crack like an egg once this is over," Cordelia murmured to Anastasia as they stood together on the minstrels' gallery above the hall, gazing down at the slowly shuffling line of loyal, black clad subjects filing past the body and the chief mourner. "She needs a therapist not all this ceremonial nonsense."

Anastasia shuddered. "God and Ancestors, whatever you do, Cordelia, _never_ say that to Yelizaveta. She'll go off like a plasma grenade! She had a belly full of your 'therapy' when she was prisoner on Beta Colony."

Cordelia stared. "When she was what?"

"I guess you're too young to remember her case," Anastasia conceded after a considering glance at her stepmother. "Yelizaveta was the only survivor of her family. Father, mother, sisters and baby brother were all massacred by Yuri's murder squad. Yelizaveta was mostly shielded by her mother's body but neural damage left her half paralyzed. Her grandparents, naturally enough, sent her to Beta Colony to get the best galactic medical care. We weren't up to neural replacement back then -"

"Nor are you yet," Cordelia broke in grimly.

Anastasia shrugged. "Not up to Betan standards I grant you. Anyway they fixed Yelizaveta up right enough, then your government decided to 'rescue' her from barbaric Barrayar by trading on her derived Betan citizenship and digging up some distant cousin to claim custody – Princess Dorothee's immediate family would have nothing to do with the plot I'm happy to say.

Cordelia's face lit in sudden understanding. "Oh! the Barrayaran princess, I was too young to notice the news at the time but of course I've heard of the case."

"They've made seven holovids of it at last count – with us Barrayarans cast as the villains every time." Anastasia said a little bitterly. "_We_ see it differently of course. From _our_ point of view a member of _our_ Imperial family was held captive by an off-world government for three standard years and subjected to mental torture passing for 'therapy' because she wanted to go home!"

Cordelia swallowed and looked uncomfortable. "You're right, that's not the way they tell it on Beta Colony."

"It's the way Yelizaveta tells it." Anastasia said grimly. "She has no good memories of your home world, Cordelia, or of your famous 'therapy'."

"I've had problems with it myself," her stepmother answered.

…..

The funeral procession was a relatively modest rehearsal for the grand parade that attended on the boy- Emperor's formal entrance into his new estate processing from the Residence along a winding route through the new city and over the Starbridge to tour the old city and finally take official possession of his fortress of Vorhartung. The whole business took nearly five hours, including halts for speeches and loyal demonstrations.

Gregor was a small, elfin figure in miniature scarlet and blues perched gleefully atop a tall and beautiful but calm to comatose gelding led by an armsman in the Vorbarra purple and gold. The Emperor was preceded by the Guardian of the Speaker's Circle holding a cavalry spear flying the Vorbarra battle colors in his fist, and followed a respectful horse-length behind by his Regent Aral Vorkosigan; then came a massive state coach surrounded by liveried outriders carrying Her Imperial Highness the Princess-dowager Kareen; Princess and Countess Yelizaveta Vorbarra Vorkleves; the Regent-consort Cordelia Naismith Lady Vorkosigan and Anastasia Vorkosigan Lady Vorkleves.

The four ladies were literally packed round with priceless fabrics, the pale billowing satins and laces of their court gowns and their ten foot state trains; purple velvet twined all over with olive leaves and gillyflowers in gold thread; black satin glittering with silver leaves and stars; and heavy brown silk damasked with a maple-leaf pattern stitched with silver bullion. They were carefully unpacked at the castle by a full dozen armsmen in the liveries of their assorted Houses, stood through more speech making and a display of military drill as the keys of the castle were formally handed over to the new Emperor, then were escorted with the rest of the cortege to the white drawing room to refresh themselves with a lavish buffet lunch and wait for the streets to clear enough for them all to get home by ground car.

Normally the key ceremony would have been followed immediately by the oath takings which would go on for as long as necessary – a full sixty-six hours with only brief breaks back when Ezar took possession of castle and empire. But Princess Kareen had flatly refused to countenance any such thing and the new regent had backed her up. Instead they all went home to a good dinner and a good night's sleep before reassembling the next morning in the council chamber. The Princess demanded, and got, a fifteen minute break every hour on the hour. A three hour lunch and nap break and a cut-off time of six in the afternoon. Needless to say this dragged the oath-taking out to several days to the acute annoyance of certain of the more arrogant and thoughtless Counts.

It took a full ten-day, the Barrayaran week, but the rites were all performed with due ceremony and in their proper order. And then, finally, everybody was free to go home and get on with their lives.


End file.
